A shrill sound of laughter and of amused voices—voices of men，women，and children—resounded in the street while this wine game lasted. There was little roughness in the sport，and much playfulness.There was a special companionship in it，and observable inclination on the part of every one to join some other one，which led，especially among the luckier or lighter-hearted，to frolicsome embraces，drinking of healths，shaking of hands，and even joining of hands and dancing，a dozen together.When the wine was gone，and the places where it had been most abundant were raked into a gridiron-pattern by fingers，these demonstrations ceased，as suddenly as they had broken out.The man who had left his saw sticking in the firewood he was cutting，set it in motion again；the woman who had left on a door-step the little pot of hot ashes，at which she had been trying to soften the pain in her own starved fingers and toes，or in those of her child，returned to it；men with bare arms，matted locks，and cadaverous faces，who had emerged into the winter light from cellars，moved away，to descend again；and a gloom gathered on the scene that appeared more natural to it than sunshine.
The wine was red wine，and had stained the ground of the narrow street in the suburb of Saint Antoine，in Paris，where it was spilled. It had stained many hands，too，and many faces，and many naked feet，and many wooden shoes.The hands of the man who sawed the wood，left red marks on the billets；and the forehead of the woman who nursed her baby，was stained with the stain of the old rag she wound about her head again.Those whohad been greedy with the staves of the cask，had acquired a tigerish smear about the mouth；and one tall joker so besmirched，his head more out of a long squalid bag of a night-cap than in it，scrawled upon a wall with his fingers dipped in muddy wine-lees—BLOOD.
The time was to come，when that wine too would be spilled on the street-stones，and when the stain of it would be red upon many there.
And now that the cloud settled on Saint Antoine，which a momentary gleam had driven from his sacred countenance，the darkness of it was heavy—cold，dirt，sickness，ignorance，and want，were the lords in waiting on the saintly presence—nobles of great power all of them；but，most especially the last. Samples of a people that had undergone a terrible grinding and regrinding in the mill，and certainly not in the fabulous mill which ground old people young，shivered at every corner，passed in and out at every doorway，looked from every window，fluttered in every vestige of a garment that the wind shook.The mill which had worked them down，was the mill that grinds young people old；the children had ancient faces and grave voices；and upon them，and upon the grown faces，and ploughed into every furrow of age and coming up afresh，was the sign，Hunger.It was prevalent everywhere.Hunger was pushed out of the tall houses，in the wretched clothing that hung upon poles and lines；Hunger was patched into them with straw and rag and wood and paper；Hunger was repeated in every fragment of the small modicum of firewood that the man sawed off；Hunger stared down from the smokeless chimneys，and started up from the filthy street that had no offal，among its refuse，or anything to eat.Hunger was the inionon the baker's shelves，written in every small loaf of his scanty stock of bad bread；at the sausage-shop，in every dead-dog preparation that was offered for sale.Hunger rattled its dry bones among the roasting chestnuts in the turned cylinder；Hunger was shred into atomies in every farthing porringer of husky chips of potato，fried with some reluctant drops of oil.
Its abiding place was in all things fitted to it. A narrow winding street，full of offence and stench，with other narrow winding streets diverging，all peopled by rags and nightcaps，and all smelling of rags and nightcaps，and all visible things with a brooding look upon them that looked ill.In the hunted air of the people there was yet some wild-beast thought of the possibility of turning at bay.Depressed and slinking though they were，eyes of fire were not wanting among them；nor compressed lips，white with what they suppressed；or foreheads knitted into the likeness of the gallows-rope they mused about enduring，or inflicting.The trade signs（and they were almost as many as the shops）were，all，grim illustrations of Want.The butcher and the porkman painted up only the leanest scrags of meat；the baker，the coarsest of meagre loaves.The people rudely pictured as drinking in the wine-shops，croaked over their scanty measures of thin wine and beer，and were gloweringly confidential together.Nothing was represented in a flourishing condition，save tools and weapons；but，the cutler's knives and axes were sharp and bright，the smith's hammers were heavy，and the gunmaker's stock was murderous.The crippling stones of the pavement，with their many little reservoirs of mud and water，had no footways，but broke off abruptly at the doors.The kennel，to make amends，ran down the middle of the street—when it ran at all：which was only after heavyrains，and then it ran，by many eccentric fits，into the houses.Across the streets，at wide intervals，one clumsy lamp was slung by a rope and pulley；at night，when the lamplighter had let these down，and lighted，and hoisted them again，a feeble grove of dim wicks swung in a sickly manner overhead，as if they were at sea.Indeed they were at sea，and the ship and crew were in peril of tempest.
For，the time was to come，when the gaunt scarecrows of that region should have watched the lamplighter，in their idleness and hunger，so long，as to conceive the idea of improving on his method，and hauling up men by those ropes and pulleys，to flare upon the darkness of their condition. But，the time was not come yet；and every wind that blew over France shook the rags of the scarecrows in vain，for the birds，fine of song and feather，took no warning.